


The Warmth Within

by longteeth



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, H3 ending, Light Femdom, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Vaginal Sex, and it's like realllllyyy cold oh noo such a shame, diana is a master manipulator but it's fine bc she's hot, himbo47, huddle for warmth, kind of?, the happy ending they deserve, they're in the fuck cabin!!, undercover whore diana and big dick 47 - the ultimate power couple, virgin47, well they'd die of desperation anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longteeth/pseuds/longteeth
Summary: 47 returns to Diana after the pact is done. She greets him with the usual mix of courteous respect and rampant desire. Such a shame about the broken heating…
Relationships: Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Comments: 26
Kudos: 80





	The Warmth Within

**Author's Note:**

> soo were just going to pretend that diana was in that cabin at the end of H3, and that 47 wasn’t there yet when the phone call took place,,,, let me completely butcher the original ending for fanservice come on now we need SMUT and we need it NOW!!!!

The cabin was merely a temporary residence, she promised herself, and for the past week it had been satisfactory, a welcome change, even, from the sleek New York apartments and polished Parisian penthouses. It was much smaller, but the wardrobe was big enough so there was nothing to complain about. She had also made sure that the kitchen was well stocked – and she found herself grateful that Yates had clearly left his winery in good hands before his untimely, accidental death.

Romania was cold, with lengthy winters and abundant snowfall. A piercing wind continuously attacked the windows, and with the promise of 47’s arrival, and her mind dizzied by alcohol, Diana had devised a plan. Minutes before she received a call from her ex-agent, she had purposefully turned off the heating, against her usual, calculated rationale. Hearing his voice left her in a high simply unmatched - and at this point radio frequency did little to prevent it. Today was the first time she would see him face-to-face since she had left him dying in warm Argentina. Worried nights going over the exact dosage and second guessing her calculations kept her very much awake, and indulgent evenings spent with a bottle of Malbec let her mind race on the possibilities of their next meeting, but 47 had seldom mentioned the idea, explored his humanity alone, individually, for the very first time, and as much as she was glad that he could finally experience this freedom, she cursed their lack of contact at allowing for her desperation to take over, and letting her (normally brilliant) brain come up with such demeaning ideas.

When the door slammed open and he finally walked in, her heart clenched at the sight of him. The blizzard howled outside, still he managed to close the door ever so gracefully, as though it required no force at all. She noted the tint to his cheeks and nose, and as much as she wanted to think that she was the cause of this lovely countenance, the weather outside suggested otherwise. Excellent, she smiled. It wouldn’t take long for the inevitable solution to arise, and she’d finally, _finally_ , be wrapped in his strong, warm, capable arms.

“Took you long enough,” she teased, leaning against the kitchen counter. It was a waste he didn’t compete in the Olympics. “How was the flight?”

“Fine, as always,” he took a few steps closer, and she thought that maybe her plan would be rendered completely unnecessary. No, he stops at a sensible arm’s length away.

She had picked up on the subtleties of his lingering gaze over the years, it didn’t take much skill to recognise the simple truth that neither of them had openly admitted. His gentleness with her, his concern, his trust - he had let her rule him for so long, that when she left, he didn’t know what to do with himself. At this point, gentle promises and ‘I love you’s’ weren’t necessary for either of them to understand. Years ago, she had chosen him, and now he chose her. There was no need for anything more.

Still, from the very day she first laid eyes on him, she knew that the insatiable craving that poked at her loins could only grow. 47’s file revealed little of his preferences, he seemed indifferent to sex, and she did not push further on the matter. Over the years, she had to resort to watching him climb drainpipes and wondering how his hands would feel against the sides of her torso, if he were exploring her body with the same precision and dedication. She would silently curse herself as she’d watch him subdue someone and feel her heart throb at the idea of him holding her so close, so intimately, his mouth inches away from her ear, his strong arms wrapped around her. It was humiliating, sure, but it was all she had for decades.

And yet here he was in the flesh, real, breathing, _alive_. He had promised himself to her eternally, and it was everything she had ever wanted. Well, nearly – and that’s why the heating was now off.

“It’s cold,” he stated simply. She expertly held back a grin, feigning apathy.

“Oh, yes, the heating broke this morning,” she didn’t meet his eyes, he could read her too well, “I can make some tea if you like?”

At this he seemed somewhat bewildered, opening his mouth as though to say something, but closing it soon after. She shrugged nonchalantly and turned to fill up the kettle. There was no doubt that he would find himself growing bitter from the temperature in due time, and the only solution to such a dilemma was one she grew more and more restless in anticipation of.

“There’s a fireplace,” he started, and she heard him rise from the couch, “I’ll cut down some wood.”

Fuck.

“47, wait,” she turned around, mind racing with excuses, at which he stopped in his tracks. There were logs piled up outside, he would surely find them and ruin her plans for the evening. He seemed to sense her discomfort and took a step closer.

“I saw an axe outside, it’s no effort,” he blinked, “you shouldn’t worry.”

She tried her best not to roll her eyes at his remark. There was a sweetness in his voice that she adored, but she thought that if he really cared for her wellbeing he’d be on his knees by now, and not offering to go run off into the woods with an axe.

“It’s dull, you won’t cut anything with it,” she protested, crossing her arms, “there’s wood outside but it’s surely damp by now, no good for a fire.”

He contemplated this for a while, staring outside blankly. He gave a slow nod.

“Tea sounds good,” he returned to the couch.

She made two cups of Earl grey and sat down next to him, setting the tea down on the dark coffee table.

“What now? When’s the next contract?” he asked, stirring in an obscene amount of sugar. Diana frowned somewhat.

“So eager to get back to work? Must’ve been an awful holiday,” she joked, but he didn’t smile.

“Awful is a strong word,” he began, and she wanted to interrupt, explain herself, but he was about to divulge something personal, and she had learned long ago that these rare moments had to be treated with the utmost care. “It felt strange at first, but I grew to enjoy it – existing purely for myself. It was nice.” Diana nodded. He never showed any signs of discomfort during their weekly phone calls. “But I missed normality, I suppose. It wasn’t easy.”

She gave him a comforting smile. It couldn’t have been.

“I imagine it would take a while to get used to a completely new lifestyle - killing was all you had ever known. Perhaps a year isn’t enough,” she reached out to hold his hand, no toxin this time, just contact, the pleasant reminder that they are here again, alive, together. “Don’t be hard on yourself.”

“It wasn’t-” his face twisted upon instinct, and her pulse quickened somewhat, searching for any signs of just what he could be trying to express, but his eyes glazed over when he met hers, “You’re right. Thank you.”

She was confident that he was hiding something, not maliciously, simply afraid to voice his thoughts. It was a shame considering how open and honest he had been with her before, but then again, he had always struggled with words, and this was nothing new, there was no reason to overreact.

“I haven’t got any contracts planned for you yet, 47,” she began, “I thought I’d wait until you got here - I want you to get a say as well.” He looked up at her, something akin to confusion was blatantly painted across his face, but he nodded.

“Thank you, Diana,” he meant it, but she couldn’t ponder his tone for long as he reached out to take a sip of the tea and leaned back on the sofa.

The chill was starting to get to her, tea doing very little to aid the shiver creeping up her spine. As they conversed and blankets started to pile up around the two, Diana had found herself getting closer to her goal. 47 was leaning back in a manner she has never seen before, relaxed, perhaps a normal state to be in on a Friday evening in most households, but this was 47, and despite knowing him for 23 years now, she rarely had the pleasure of seeing him in anything other than silent furiousness or plain indifference. She was curled up near his thighs, her head on his shoulder, and this was familiar, like back in Grey’s safehouse when she was sick, and 47 had offered her some soup and some company.

There is no warm soup now, but he’s still here, and the offer will come eventually, she knows. She’s holding his hand in hers, stroking along his tapered fingers as she details the inner workings of Providence, how comical it is that it only took a year to dismantle the most powerful organisation in the world, how they’re safe now, safer than they’ve ever been, with the two groups that had ruled their lives up until today gone. It would be perfect, _but it’s cold._

She begins to regret her decision; it was stupid really. They had come so far, watering the seed of their relationship with trust and honesty over the years, and here she was, playing childish games to get what she wanted. 47 had never been sentimental, and without a good reason to hold her, she believed he simply wouldn’t, but testing these kinds of boundaries was how you ended relationships. Then his arm creeps around her shoulders, slowly. He means it as a suggestion, and he dares not speak. She leans into his touch, her answer clear.

“That axe can’t be that dull,” he finally says, and he’s tense, “I’ll manage. It’s freezing.”

She grits her teeth, partly to stop the chattering, partly because now she has to live with the consequences of her lies.

“No, you won’t,” she demurs, and she knows she’s close. There is no turning back now, he won’t argue, he’s always been obedient. “We’ll manage until the morning.”

“You want to spend the night like this?” He asks, and she stifles a chuckle at his wording, pressing her lips together. He’s correct, in a way.

“There’s no other way, 47. You’re well aware,” her lips are by his ear, and she prays that he understands. Gently, he lets her lay on top of him, and she revels in the feeling of this new contact, takes in his scent and the sight of his broad chest covered under only a tightly-fitted turtleneck up close, but laying on top of him is like laying on top of a brick of ice, and she soon realises that her plan might include far more contact than she had initially planned for.

She starts to rub her hands up and down his sides, and although he’s shocked, he reciprocates. His palms are large, and strong, but with thick layers of clothing in the way, the friction will do nothing to warm either of them up. And this is it, she thinks, now or never. Besides, he’s seen her naked before, no big deal, right? At the time he showed no interest in her anyway. She’s not asking that of him now either, though it is what she wants. Desperately.

She pulls her jumper over her head, and his hands tremble somewhat as he lets go of her torso.

“Diana, what-”

She’s unsure how to read him. This is new. Goosebumps appear on her bare arms as she straddles him and thinks of what to say. _Pathetic,_ she thinks to herself. _You couldn’t have done this normally; everything is always a game._

“Body heat,” she mutters. She feels heavy with sudden self-consciousness, her chest feels tight, and she curses herself as she still can’t decipher the look he’s giving her now, “it’s the best we have. Unless you want to freeze.”

This is wrong, this isn’t what she wanted, she thinks. The fantasies of candlelight and silk sheets and lacy lingerie are ruined by her impatience, and now when he sees her it’s in some stupid blizzard in Romania, under thick, stiff, knitted fabric and with the threat of freezing unless he lets her touch him. Up close, her thoughts of him seem dirty, wrong, sinful. It’s funny in a way, she thinks, because if she told him all of her greatest fantasies right here, right now, in the most explicit detail and poetic vocabulary, he would probably stare at her blindly, confused, perhaps intrigued, but indifferent, unbothered, as she spilled out a lifetime full of filthy desires, getting more desperate with every word, aware that she has ruined any chance she has ever had at this.

_No, focus. You made your bed, now lay in it. He has every right to back away._

She can see his apprehension, that much is clear now, but his face indicates nothing more. He nods though, because he trusts her, and she hopes that a part of him wants this just as bad as she. He pulls off his turtleneck, and she does her very best to seem unphased by the gorgeous inches of skin he reveals. She slips her trousers off, discarded on the wooden floor in a mountain of their clothing. She meets his eyes when she unclasps her bra, and the look on his face is both terrifying and comforting, in a way. He’s new to this. He’s scared, and the possibility of his rejection kills her, but his pupils are dilated, massive like saucers, and he gulps. His heart rate is not usually this high, and this alone is enough to encourage her. Words seem to be failing him, but he leaves his trousers on, and she questions the matter no further.

Slowly, slowly, she touches him again. She’s seen his chest before, but it’s different now. It’s not on a screen as he’s chasing after a target in the Maldives or littered with open scars and Vodka as make-shift disinfectant when he’s laying in a safehouse after the unthinkable has happened. He’s here, and he trusts her, lets her touch him like never before. There are little scars littering his milky skin, some she recognises, others she does not, but seeing them like this feels so intimate in a way that makes her lips curl involuntarily. He’s rubbing her sides as well, and her chest is against his. A pool of warmth is starting to grow along her sides, in her chest, although it’s probably just adrenaline, anticipation as her body has a different, indecent idea of where this is going.

Therein lies the problem. She wants him to want her, to beg for her touch, desperately moaning obscenities as she handles him until he’s thoroughly wrecked for her, but if 47 has ever had such untamed desires then he is hiding them perfectly. Naturally, if she asked him to play the part, he would, perfect and obedient as always, but their relationship had seen more than enough of pretending. She wants him, needs him, _now_ , but proceeding any further would have to be slow, like taming a wild animal - one wrong move and he could back away hissing and clawing, an instinct taught to him from childhood. She would have to let him discover her on his own terms, slowly, with whispered words of encouragement and praise. No move can be made, as any sign of apprehension from him would be unbearable. She does her job – provides an opportunity – it is up to him to take it.

He looks lost, in a way. His pupils are blown up, but she can still see those killer blue eyes, and he’s searching her for something, approval maybe, unable to formulate his thoughts coherently. She nods, and it’s the only encouragement he needs to reach up and claim her lips. It’s familiar now, the feeling of soft muscles and harsh contours, but it’s different, so much better than all those years ago. He’s breathing for her, more alive than she has ever seen him, and he’s taking his time as he explores her mouth, his tongue soft yet desperate, careful not to overstep, but delighting in the primitive comfort of her taste.

Ideally, he would forget anything he knew about respectability right now, and give in fully, take her as he pleases and let her do the same – there would be no one to stop either of them. Then again, it would be unlike him, and as his tongue mingles with hers, and his hands are trembling a little against her jaw, she thinks that his careful, elegant nature is rather endearing.

She lets him live in the delusion of his control for now, and he moves on top of her with no effort as he works his way down her jaw, neck, clavicles; he’s hungry, and he’s gaining confidence by the minute. He takes a round, pink nipple in his mouth and sucks and kisses and bites oh so gently, his hands still roaming her sides, the initial aim of all of this long forgotten as both of them are warm with passion, giddy with the notion that this is their present reality.

He’s lovely, and a very quick learner, it seems, as evident by the shattered gasps currently spilling from her mouth. He takes care of her other breast with his hand, pinching and stroking delicately, as though scared to break her, enchanted by her scent. He pulls his mouth away with a small - pop - much to her disdain, but she doesn’t protest as he picks her up, bridal style. She mentally ticks off the checkbox in her list of fantasies. Nestled in his warm arms, he carries her to the bedroom, and she notices that he’s _sweating_ as he lays her down on the bed. Frantically, he pulls his trousers off, and he’s beautiful in just his underwear, but of course he is. His usual elegance is long forgotten as he climbs on top of her again and returns with sweet kisses moving down her abdomen. Zealously, he reaches for her underwear, but he stops himself. He’s anxiously looking in her eyes now, scared to overstep as though he hadn’t just been sucking at her mouth like his life depended on it.

“May I?” his breath fans across her midriff, he has his hands on her pelvis, but he’s barely holding her, afraid of rejection even now, when she’s gradually, pleasantly coming undone by his skilful hands. He’s looking up at her intently with the most exquisite mix of reluctant-self control and devotion, a kind of greed that cannot accurately be described by lust, but a 23-year craving that he is only now entertaining the idea of satisfying properly.

“Of course,” she manages, lifting herself up by her elbows.

Her pants soon lay discarded by his trousers, and he doesn’t wait for anything more to _finally_ succumb to his innate desires and indulge, taste her, and oh God is it perfect. He fits so well between her thighs, his steady hands holding her gently, and the mere sight of his bald head buried in her is too much, too obscene when it’s real and she can feel it all, every breath, every subtle movement of his tongue as he thoroughly works away at her. He licks and sucks at her earthy core, and though she knows he’s going off instinct alone here, she would not have guessed that this was his first time. She moans and thrusts and sighs as she loses control of herself, hands gripping at the sheets, all rational thought long gone, as everything that exists in the world is her dear 47 and his expert tongue.

He eats her like a ripe peach, licks at her clit with broad strokes, unwilling to stop even to breathe, his dedication is ever so admirable, as she thinks he _must_ be drowning in her cunt. She’s overwhelmed and convinced that this can’t be real, and her thighs shake clumsily through her orgasm as she’s grasping for anything within her reach right now, unsure if the crude moans filling out the room right now are really hers or if this is all just some dream, some all-too-vivid fantasy she has allowed herself to live in for too long. She comes hot and heavy against his magnificent tongue, and he licks at her until she stops shaking, ever the perfectionist.

It’s her turn now, and though she’s unsure anything in the world could top the feeling of his warm mouth, the excitement that grows at sight of her dearest ex-agent as he leans against her pillow, nude, bar for his underwear, as his mouth is covered in her juices could most certainly compete. She pulls at his waistband slowly, looking into his eyes to ascertain his approval. He’s no longer the calculated assassin she knows him to be. The man she sees is her wrecked lover, staring her down with an intense appetite, and the sight of him is motivation enough to remove his underwear and give him the only appropriate reward for such lovely head.

He’s gorgeous, so hard for her, and his pretty pink tip is decorated with a pearly bead of precum. Eagerly, she takes his head into her mouth, and sucks down on him like she has dreamed to do for decades. He rolls his head back, and she archives all of his lovely sighs as reminders of tonight. He’s large, but she’s experienced enough, and she takes all the lovely noises he’s making as encouragement in its finest form. She licks down the veiny shaft and presses a perfectly manicured hand to his balls, and he’s struggling to keep going like this, she knows as he whispers a prayer, so she stops. They both want more.

He releases a shaky breath, and she meets his gaze. Naturally, he looks so perfectly desperate for her, and she thinks that he must have read her mind at some point, studied the Bible of all of her greatest fantasies in detail. The silent assassin, the man who could look fear itself in the eye and keep his heart rate perfectly steady, is now completely falling apart by her touch.

“I couldn’t do it,” he spits out.

“Do what?” it’s sudden, and she doesn’t understand. 47 was never good with words, but this is unexpected, and he looks distressed, worried even, although she can’t be sure, maybe the lighting is creating an illusion, or the hormones in her brain are still playing with her rationality.

“I missed you. I had to come back - that’s why I’m here. It’s not about the killing, Diana,” he utters, trying to regain his breath, and she smiles. Though they’re equals now, finally, they both know that he belongs to her, still. It’s inevitable, because the world could end and everything could disappear but there would always be her, and he would always return. She’s all warm and funny inside, although 47 seems to be practically dying, melting under her touch, desperately trying to keep still like she had silently requested.

“I missed you too, 47,” she meets his eyes once more, tracing along the lines of his pelvis, “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

“Touch me,” he’s twitching under her fingertips, his body trying for her contact, “please, Diana,”

And how could she deny such a pretty request?

She handles him, gently, as she moves to straddle him, and he has that predator gaze again, he’s shaking with anticipation, and she sinks down and oh _, oh, just so, 47, you’re so perfect for me, my love_ , _you fill me up so well,_ everything is involuntary, the words now spilling from her mouth are filthy, but they’re true, and she’s long forgotten any of the polite things she would tell him over the phone just days ago. In this moment she knows that he is meant for her in every way, and everything makes sense. The world is theirs now, and in any way that matters, they are one.

Her thighs are giving out, and he lays her down on the mattress, now crumpled from both of their tight grasps and shudders. The moonlight streaks across his face, and he looks fierce, hanging above her as he gently slides into her warmth again. From here she gets to observe all of the contours of his muscles in their full beauty, powerful, robust, verging into defined curves, straining as he pumps into her, his face contoured in pleasure. She reaches up behind his arms, clings onto him, so her clammy chest is against his, because no contact will ever be enough for her, now that she’s tasted him. There’s a collection of fantasies, of possibilities, of everything she wants to do with him, to take her time, to take him roughly and make him sigh and whine and groan her name, or to let him take the initiative for a change and fuck her until she’s unable to stand up alone, but it’ll all have to wait, because tonight is their first, and she clings to him because this is right, this is better than she could have ever anticipated, with his perfect, even, full strokes into the very heart of her, and those remarkably soft hands cradling her like his treasure.

And silently she’s glad that she is his first, she wouldn’t have it any other way, he is hers, and he knows it, and there is no denying it as he fills her out perfectly now, and she’s moaning and keening uncontrollably because this is that eternal heaven that she’s earned after decades spent at her very best decent behaviour, no matter how unbearable at the time. It’s almost comical now, because this is the result of simply letting go and trusting her desire to guide her to him.

He thrusts into her with the enthusiasm of a man trying to survive, to cling onto his last breath, because she is the living proof that he is human, that he is capable of more than destruction.

When he comes, it’s with a lewd groan, and she could come all over again purely from the sight of him collapsed next to her in what cannot be described as a comfortable position, struggling to catch his breath, as he’s sweating and trembling. He reaches for her, and she comes to him, lays against his chest, as he strokes her hair, and neither of them speak, too tired to say the obvious, the words hang comfortably in the sweaty air as they doze off into peaceful slumber.

When she awakes, tangled in the crisp sheets, she smiles at the crackling fire in the living room.

“The axe worked perfectly fine,” a familiar voice greets, which she simply acknowledges with a knowing hum.

**Author's Note:**

> this was my first time writing smut so,,, i hope it is at least somewhat up to par with the absolute masterpieces written for 47/diana in this fandom,, go easy on me lolol


End file.
